Yet, here I am again, one of the only ones my age who still goes to shul, because from that day to this, nothing’s different

Birthdays, Yamim Tovim, and other annual events — they’re all milestones, markers. This time last year I think each time they come around. The scenes between then and now fade so I can see the two days in juxtaposition, like the spot-the-difference pictures my grandmother loved.

It’s Rosh Hashanah again and we’re back, in the big shul we don’t usually daven in, sitting in the front row seats our family always uses.

We’re late again — that’s the same.

“Excuse me...so sorry... thanks,” I say to the woman who extends a hand to help me pass. I grasp it entirely as a sign of appreciation, because I’m good on my own.

The path to our front row seat is one I know by heart, the greetings of “good Yom Tov” is a familiar rhythm, and maneuvering the spaces between people a well-practiced choreography. My sisters trace my steps, always right behind me.

White scratches peek through the red paint on the benches, stacks of yellowing seforim sit on the windowsill, there’s a tiny hole in the curtain just above our seats. That’s the same.

The gap below the tinted window is lower than last year’s, it must be, because I don’t remember bending to see through it. I crouch and peek through. My father is in his usual Tishrei spot, of course. His tallis is pulled over his head. My brother is in the seat next to him — he also has a tallis this year.

New daughters-in-law squeeze into the seats near us; grandkids perch on the back of their seats and share their potato chips; the row behind me has two more wigs. Smile, say mazal tov, compliment the new look.